


Under Mist and Cove

by old_quincey



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Merpeople, Multi, Smuggling, macbeth at the beach, smuggling au, smuggling politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:11:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/old_quincey/pseuds/old_quincey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smuggling isn't the safest line of business but Macbeth is good at what he does and his loyalty to his leader, Duncan, could never be doubted. Until one night he encounters three creatures - half women, half fish - who set him down a more ambitious path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm having a go at a smuggling au. I've changed the setting from Scotland to Cornwall, simply because I know the Cornish coast. Please leave feedback - it really helps me know where to go. I can also be found on Tumblr at cantankerousquince.tumblr.com

The haul had been good this trip. Fortune had been on their side. The days had been close and humid, bringing the promise of a storm to come and break the sticky heat at any moment. Most would have avoided taking to the sea, knowing how the winds would aggravate the waters, whipping up high waves, capable of crushing a ship to mere debris in minutes, leaving the crew to be fed to the current.

Most had good sense. But the green boys, given charge of ships by foolish fathers were always the risk takers. The fools. It was so easy. So simple to follow the storm, wait in calmer climes whilst nature ravaged finely crafted vessels; tearing into their hulls with watery fingers and prying varnished wood apart so that the cargo held within could float to the surface, just waiting to be picked up.

_The Glamis_ was the perfect vessel to swipe the goods from the waters and keep them safe and dry within her belly. Small enough to go unnoticed but deep enough to hide many treasures within.

 It seemed that the seas had been crawling with fools this night, for not long after the crew had brought up the passing barrels (full of fine, French brandy) another, smaller ship was spotted, close to the shore line. Its sails were wet and limp and a sizable chunk of wood had been torn from its side.

“Worth our time?” Macbeth called to Banquo, who had climbed the mast, telescope in hand, to investigate.

“They’ve got something!” he replied, “A couple of crates on deck, might be tea? Crew’s not anyone we know. Not authorities, though, that’s for sure.”

He tucked the telescope into his belt and swiftly sidled back down the mast.

“Is it worth our time?” Macbeth repeated.

“Can’t say for sure, but you’ll get no trouble from them. There’s six of them just sat on deck. Nothing else. Not even trying to move themselves off again. My reckoning is they’re novices.”

Macbeth considered this for a moment.

“Turn about! Head for the rocks! By the time we reach that ship I want every pistol loaded!” he hollered to his crew.

Even if it was merely fish in those crates it would still mean one less ship to compete with. Novices or no, these were the risks one took when you sailed under mist and cove.

 

Four crates. Four crates of fine silk. Banquo had been right about the crew. Too wet behind the ears to have seen the job through to the end. They had tried to make them talk. Tell them where they got the silk, if there was any more to be had? But the most they could get out of them were hushed whispers of:

“They sang … they just sang ….”

Brandy and silk! They’d been luckier than they could ever have hoped for. Now all that remained to be done was to wait for the wind to blow them back to their cove. The wind, however, had other plans. There simply was not enough to carry them with the necessary speed back to Godrevy, and on top of that a thick, grey mist had rolled in that even the keenest smuggler’s eyes could not navigate.

They could wait. The cliffs gave them some shelter. There was no danger for the time being.

Macbeth and Banquo sat, feet dangling from the side of _The Glamis,_ listening to the sounds of the rest of the crew below who were taking stock and most likely sampling too. As long as the bulk remained untouched, Macbeth did not begrudge them a little tipple.

Beside him Banquo shuddered.

“Never known fog like this,” he murmured, “It’s not shifting. It’s not natural.”

“It’ll pass before dawn is fully upon us.”

Banquo grunted in response, though he still seemed unconvinced. This mist just wasn’t _right_. The sea was a noisy place, even on the calmest of days you could still hear the gentle lap of the waves against each other. Still hear a gull’s caw. Yet now there was nothing. Even the sounds below deck seemed muffled. Distant.

His contemplation was broken with the silence. Three sharp, shrill shrieks rose up from below the ship.

“Who’s there?” he called, leaping to his feet, “Where are you?”

Macbeth simply prepared his pistol.

The mist surrounding them seemed to dissipate, parting to reveal three, female figures in the water. Their bare torsos dripped salt water enticingly down their throats and along the curves of their breasts. Their skin was goose-fleshed by the early morning chill and their hair lay in dark rat tails that framed their thin, sallow faces. One of the women had her hands upon _The Glamis_ , idly stroking the scratches on the underside of the ship. A quick whistle from both her fellows had her leap away, displaying not legs, but a long, blue and grey tail, striped, much like that of a mackerel.

“What are you?” Banquo demanded, brandishing his pistol, “Answer me!”

 The three creatures tilted their heads in unison and smiled up at the two men, revealing rows of serrated teeth.

“Can you speak?” Macbeth asked, “Do you understand us?”

Three hands rose from the water, fingers webbed like frogs, and gently caressed their necks, their eyes never wavering from the men on the deck. The one with the mackerel’s tail opened her toothy maw and began to speak in a voice that much resembled the sound of wood cracking against a cliff face.

“Glamis. Pretty, little Glamis. Her belly all stuffed up and full. Nice and ripe. Rich for plucking.”

She swam closer to the ship, reaching out to caress the wood again. Before she could reach them another of the trio shot forward and grabbed her by the tail, hissing a warning. Her target lashed around in her sister’s grasp, lunging forward to scratch at her face. There was an explosion of screeching and splashing and wet slaps of skin as the two clawed at each other, thrashing in the quiet waters. The smaller of the two dove beneath the surface, swiftly pursued by the other, shimmering tails smacking the water in their haste.

Both men had been momentarily distracted by the display, so neither had paid any heed to the third creature who had slunk closer and closer to _The Glamis_ and pulled herself up its side so that when Macbeth turned his gaze he came face to face with the mysterious being. Up close he could see that her more human half was not covered with skin but thousands of tightly packed scales; he could just make out their edges in the dim light.

She stretched out over the ship to place a cold, clammy hand on his cheek.

“There are embers in you yet,” she said simply, with a light pitch that was more song than speech, “Add some wind to them and they shall burn. Oh, how mighty your fire shall be! What do you long for, Macbeth? What fuels your fire? Another ship, perhaps? _The Cawdor_ will be needing a new hand to steer it. But a man cannot sail the seas forever, can he? You all want to grow old in comfort and on land. To be king of the fleet? Does _that_ make your embers glow? It’s all yours. If you want it. It’s all yours.”

Her final words were barely audible as she place a chaste, salty kiss to his lips then released her grip on the ship to slide back into the water where her sisters, long done with their dispute, were waiting.

Banquo, quite at a loss at how to respond, laughed nervously.

“Well that’s something! What about me then? Don’t I get anything? A castle perhaps?”

“Not for you, silly!” the mackerel tailed woman giggled, which turned into a squawk of indignation when the others splashed her, clearly warning her to hold her tongue.

“No. No castles for you. It is not in your stars to ascend. But your line will grow and thrive and rise!”

As one they sang out:

“Hail Macbeth! Hail Banquo! Burn and rise!”

And dove back beneath the lazy surf, leaving not even a ripple in their wake.

 

“What the hell was that all about?” Macbeth marvelled, finally finding his voice.

“I truly have no idea. But there is something I do know …”

“What is that?”

“You kissed a fish. What’ll your wife reckon to that?”

Macbeth growled out a warning and advanced on his old friend to deliver a playful punch to his shoulder.

“You tell my wife and you’ll find yourself unable to please yours!”

Could these odd beings have some otherworldly knowledge? How much truth could be found in their words? There would be time to think on it later. For now the mist had cleared enough that they could make for their cove and hand their goods over to Duncan’s safe hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arr thar be smugglin' afoot. An' treachery an' all. Harrrr.

 

Godrevy was unusually occupied by the time the jolly boats had been pulled from the shallows and up onto the beach. Duncan was among the hubbub, puffing stoically on his pipe. Macbeth waded across the wet sand to greet him with a handshake.

“You’re late. Thought you’d drowned.” Duncan barked gruffly, but there was no venom in it, only a quirk of lips beneath his beard and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

“Just held up by a fearsome fog ‘round Zennor way. What’s with the welcome party?”

Duncan side in a plume of bitter tobacco smoke.

“The night I’ve had… Cawdor turned tail. Went government on us. Should have bloody known. Who names a ship after themselves?”

“He turned? What … what does that mean for us?”

“Luckily we got to him before he could go running off his mouth about us and our routes. Nasty business. You think you know someone. But enough misery; what’s done is done. Have you got anything I can sell?”

Macbeth smiled, slinging an arm around Duncan’s shoulder and lead him to the barrels and crates being taken from the jolly boats.

“How does brandy and silk sound to you?”

Duncan grinned broadly.

“Sounds like my silver lining. Let’s see ‘em,” he held out his hand to accept a bottle and inspected the label, “My, my, you did do well, didn’t you? Well get this lot loaded and we’ll get it sold within the week.”

A sharp whistle was given to signal the horse and cart to draw near, ready for loading. Following dutifully behind was Banquo’s young boy, Fleance, charged with the task of raking over the sand to ensure no trace of the cart’s wheels or sailors’ boots were left behind. This was a responsibility the boy took very seriously, his brow furrowed in concentration as he maneuvered the tall rake. So involved in his task was he that he didn’t notice his father jog in a wide arc to come up behind him. In a flurry of sand and gangling limbs, Fleance was lifted clean off his feet and slung over Banquo’s shoulder.

“Pa!” he protested, “I’m working!”

“And a fine job you’re doing littl’un. Though it’s usually better to do the raking once the beach is empty.”

Fleance blushed furiously as his feet met the earth again but managed to bury his face into his father’s chest when he was quickly tugged into an embrace.

“Ah, leave the boy be, Banquo,” Duncan called, “He’s been a godsend tonight.”

“Hear that lad? A godsend! We’ll have to start feeding you more!”

 

 

With the cart loaded and its goods concealed beneath a tarpaulin it began its journey across to Duncan’s safe house to await its buyers.

Those remaining on the beach watched it disappear over the horizon before trudging through thick, wet sand to push the jolly boats back through the surf in order to re-join _The Glamis_ who would then sail round to port in Portreath so the men could finally return to their homes after their stint at sea.

“Macbeth,” Duncan began, “ _The Cawdor’s_ in need of a Captain and I still need her in my fleet. I need someone I can trust, truly trust; someone I can rely on to do the job right. _The Cawdor’s_ yours, if you want her.”

“You honour me, but what of _The Glamis_?”

“Still yours if you want. Under your command. What do you say?”

The words of the strange sea women echoed in his mind. Was this the first step on the wrung to even greater things? And did he want it? He could not deny that it would be fine to spend more time on land, in better comfort.

“I thank you for this trust, I shall do my best to live up to your expectations.”

Duncan clapped him on the shoulder, smiling broadly beneath his grey, wiry beard.

“Wonderful! Oh, and we will be imposing on the hospitality of yourself and your good lady wife the day after next. If it suits of course?”

“Of course, we look forward to it.”

 

The jolly boat shifted gently against the current as it made its steady course towards _The Glamis_. Macbeth wiped the splashes of salt water that had been thrown up by the oars from his face with his sleeve. He shivered at the cold, having given his coat to young Fleance, who was sound asleep at his side.  

“So, _Cawdor_ eh? Who saw that coming?” Banquo asked, breaking the heavy silence of a morn at sea.

“Apparently someone did.”

“What about this King of the Fleet thing then? Reckon that’s going to be coming your way too?”

Macbeth shrugged.

“I won’t pretend to know. God knows what those creatures were or how they could have seen this coming. It could be a coincidence, nothing more.”

“If it’s a coincidence it’s bloody creepy.”

Macbeth had to agree. There was something truly unsettling about being able to predict things to come; and whilst it was true that having another ship to his name was a massive boon, he did not know what to do with the information bequeathed to him by the fish-like women.

 

The port was humming with life by the time _The Glamis_ weighed anchor. Along the harbour fishermen were selling their catches, advertising their wares in deep, resonant voices that were pierced with the shrieks of gulls that circled overhead; waiting for the opportune moment to swoop down and grab at any unattended food.

The moment he was back on dry land, Macbeth had thrust a letter at one of the younger lads in his crew. It was a hurried note but he stressed the importance of its speedy delivery to the boy. It had to reach his wife as soon as possible so there was no time to dawdle. With the letter clutched in his hands and a few extra coins for his troubles jangling in his pocket, the lad trotted off and disappeared into the crowd.

Not far from _The Glamis, The Cawdor_ lay peacefully, just waiting for her new commander’s inspection.


End file.
